Sub Rosa
by Sarasusamiga
Summary: Friends? Shiori thought so, once. What you don't know makes all the difference in the world. Complete.
1. Falling Petals

Disclaimer: Be-Papas, I wish you joy of Shoujo Kakumei Utena, the show which does not belong to me.

Author's Note: Shiori's POV. *...* indicates italics.

Title: Falling Petals (Part One, Sub Rosa)  
Rating: G

Category: Drama/Angst  
Pairings: Really, nothing that isn't implied by the show.  
Summary: What can Shiori do as a dream friendship starts to crumble?  
Warnings: None I can think of.  
Spoilers: Through Episode 7 ("Unfulfilled Jury").

======

Sub Rosa

Part One: Falling Petals

When did you first begin to wear it?

I *know* when it was I first saw it. 

Eighth grade--the day after my first "date" with him. For once, the two of us have gone out alone, without you. I have high hopes for the evening, cherish illusions. *He* comes with other expectations. 

So we sit side by side, never touching, in the teashop, while he pours out his feelings for you; and I sip and smile and feel my heart deflate. Yes, I say, I'll see if I can sound out how she feels. And he thanks me warmly and looks into my eyes.

It's a slow walk back to my dorm in the twilight, and a long evening spent staring at the ceiling. Jealousy has never been a stranger to me, but now it fills the air, infecting my every thought.

Yet the next morning is a golden one, exceptionally lovely even for Ohtori. "I'll make the best of this," I tell myself as I cross the campus; "boys may come and go, but friendship is forever." A shiver of unease runs down my back even as I murmur these words, for haven't you grown withdrawn lately, less open and affectionate with me?

"Snap out of it," I instruct myself. By way of distraction, I glance around me.

My stroll toward the fencing hall, where I've arranged to meet you after practice, has brought me abreast of the greenhouse. I halt abruptly.

The gardener (there was a male gardener then, an old man who must long since have retired) is cutting some long-stemmed, flame-colored blossoms. And I remember--

======

*Our first day at Ohtori, and we have just run hand in hand through the boxwood maze and the poppy field, explored the woods. Windswept and sun-warmed, we come at last to this very place. You flop down on a bench; I curl on the flagstones, folding my arms on the seat and resting my chin on them as I gaze up at you.

*Your eyes are closed, tumbling hair half-hiding your face. Without realizing it perhaps, you've sat down in front of a whole bank of roseblooms the exact shade of your hair. Glorious. It's as though you're enveloped by a great orange cloud.

*And as I watch, two perfect petals come drifting from above you. Reaching my hand up, I catch them both in a single gesture. You don't stir.

*"Look, here are your sisters."

*Your eyes pop open, you whip your head both ways in almost comical horror. "Where?"

*I hadn't meant to trick you, but I can't help giggling. You immediately level a narrow-eyed look at me. The glare of the twelve-year-old Juri is already daunting.

*Still laughing, I open my hand. "S-sorry, I was just trying to be a poet! I meant these!"

*Your suspicious gaze drops to my palm, changes to puzzlement. I slide up onto the bench beside you, loop a lock of your hair through the fingers of my cupped hand. "See?"

*Your expression changes again, turns open and soft. You look at me, then abruptly hug me tight. "Shiori, I'm so glad you came to Ohtori too!"

*"I can't imagine staying behind with you here," I reply honestly into your curls.

*You bounce to your feet, tiredness apparently gone. Reaching into a bush, you snap off a velvety-dark bud and present it to me.

*"For Shiori, compliments of Ohtori's rosegarden," you proclaim.

*Suddenly, we hear a clatter at the back of the glasshouse, then a creaky, far-from-friendly  voice. "What's going on over there? Young scalawags!" 

*Heavy footsteps sound on the flagstones. You and I look at each other, clap hands over our mouths to stifle laughter, and run for it.*

======

The gardener standing before me is probably the owner of that voice. In the two years since that day, I haven't dared come in. Yet now, and almost without realizing it, I approach the wheelbarrow on which he's placed the cut roses, and lift one to my nose.

He wheels immediately, his tufty white brows drawn together. "What do you think you're doing? Those are for the incoming members of the Seitokai!"

I bow, then smile boldly up at him. "That's all right then, because the person I'm giving this to is sure to be a member someday. Arigatou!" After bowing again, I scamper away, his grumbles receding behind me.

The fencers are drifting out the doors as I arrive. Most have already showered and changed. I sit between the windows in the front hall, waiting.

You round the corner from the corridor with the lockers, see me and half-smile.

I grin back at you. You are yourself tall and elegant as a long-stemmed rose, even in your detested sailor-fuku. 

Silently, I proffer the bloom.

You come to a stop, your smile fades. Your gaze drops to the rose, then returns to mine. There is something odd, urgent, asking in your eyes.

I look down, muster courage and good cheer, then peek up at you again.

"Friends forever, Juri-chan? It's what I want for us. For always."

You take the rose from me and bury your face in it. After a moment, you repeat, "Friends."

That could be taken for agreement, I suppose. I bob my head brightly as though it is.

We fall into step as we leave the building. A flash catches the corner of my eye. Glinting in the hollow of your neck is a pendant in the shape of a rose. 

"Juri-chan," I chirp, pleased to find some innocuous topic of conversation. "Is that new?"

You look straight ahead. "Yes."

"It's a locket, isn't it? Can I--"

"Look, there's ______," you interrupt. "Let's see if we can catch up with him--I have a question about French homework." You set off full tilt.

I can barely keep up. In fact, I don't keep up. By the time I get there, the two of you are immersed in discussion.

I've started Spanish this year, and have no part in your conversation. I lag a step behind you both, stare at your backs.

An unwelcome idea takes shape in my mind.

He's talking animatedly, sneaking a glance at your profile every now and then.

You give an almost-laugh at something he's said, and raise your hand--the one curled around the rose-stem--toward your breast. The petals caress your neck, and, faintly, you blush.

A wall breaks inside me, the dark comes rushing in. Viciously, I imagine a thorn pricking you deep on thumb or throat. 

The two of you are looking back toward me now, he smiling, you with your usual seriousness. 

"Shiori!" he says, and I sparkle a response. His eyes ask me a question.

I start composing the lie I will tell him. "It's not your picture in the locket," I'll say. "She's in love with someone else."


	2. Shiori of the Miracles

Disclaimer: Yo, Be-Papas! I think this Shoujo Kakumei Utena show is yours! Don't just leave it lying around this way…

Author's Note: Shiori's POV. * . . . * indicates italics. 

Title: Shiori of the Miracles (Part Two, Sub Rosa)  
Rating: G

Category: Drama/Angst  
Pairings: Nothing that isn't implied by the show.  
Summary: Shiori wavers--but can she change her course?  
Warnings: None I can think of.  
Spoilers: Through Episode 7 (Unfulfilled Jury).

======

Sub Rosa

Part Two: Shiori of the Miracles

1/18/2004 draft

I pause on the threshold of the almost-empty fencing hall--Juri is early for our appointed meeting, or perhaps I'm late. Instead of leaning against the wall chatting with another fencer, she's in her school uniform, sitting straight-backed on one of the spindly chairs in the vestibule with her back to the entrance.

I have rehearsed my script so many times: "Juri, I have some news you may not like. He's applied for a transfer away from Ohtori. And--so have I. I'm going with him." I've imagined her possible responses. Though Juri has a talent for repartee, it's possible words might desert even her--she might slap me or shake me. 

Yet I feel no fear, just a fever of excitement. I'm tired of skulking, working against her in silence. Today, I'll force her to meet my eyes.

My bare feet slip swiftly across the floor. Juri seems not to hear me. I see a sudden sparkle in her hand, and my steps slow slightly--she's looking at her locket. In a single motion, she closes her hand on it to shut it and drops it against her breast.

She sighs.

For a moment I stand frozen. *Juri, this isn't how I've blocked our scene. I'm supposed to be approaching you head-on, hurtling towards you like a sparring partner.* 

And what am I doing now? Approaching her from behind like an assassin. 

Purposely, I launch myself towards her in a patter of loud steps. My arms lift and reach around her head, my fingertips press lightly over her eyes.

"Guess who?" I whisper. I used to do this all the time in elementary school, until she stopped me. *I hate when you do that, Shiori--and besides, there's no mystery in it. Who else would dare except you!*

Now, she simply answers, her voice flat. "Shiori." 

Her eyelids burn my fingers. I lower my hands to her shoulders, resting them there lightly.

Was there dampness on her lashes?

"Come now, Juri," I tell her bowed head. I hardly know what I'm saying. "There's no barrier so high that *you* couldn't leap over it." 

Her shoulders tense under my hands. "You're wrong. Some barriers aren't meant to be crossed."

Is this, then, why she's made no effort to win him back? An odd reticence--maybe not wanting to violate their friendship? How strange that Juri, brave Juri, has been afraid to approach him. 

A wave of gloating passes through me, then retreats. It leaves an unnamed feeling.

Like a young tendril in spring, something pushes upwards through my layers of plans, my prepared speeches. Something born of my grade-school memories of Juri, Juri sitting beside me on the hillside near home, shaking her hair back, laughing at the sun. Juri holding my hand while I cried about not making the school play or sobbed over a careless put-down by my father. Juri's blue-green eyes shining down at me. *Believe in miracles,* she told me then.

My fingers lace through her hair. I realize that I have a debt to pay, and a risk to take.

I glide in front of her, take her hands in mine. *Look at me, Juri.* After a moment, she raises her eyes to mine--blank, miserable. 

I swallow, then speak. "Believe in miracles, and they will know your feelings." I let my eyes drop meaningfully to her locket, then lift to her face. Has she gotten the message? 

*Tonight, tomorrow, I won't stand in your way. Speak to him.*

Her face is suddenly pale, but her eyes don't leave mine. "Believe in miracles..." she whispers.

I drop her hands and turn away. "You used to tell me that all the time; now I'm giving it back to you. It's up to you what you do with it."

For a moment, I listen to the two of us breathing.

"Shiori--" she whispers. 

"You know what? That's really all I had to say."  *Why am I trembling? What if she notices?* "I'll see you later." I run to and through the door.

I don't return to my room until late; I spend the waning afternoon and evening wandering the garden maze, then pick up a package of rice crackers from a vendor off-campus. 

I picture her approaching his cafeteria table, him looking up, disbelieving, in wonder.

I imagine them sitting by the fountain with their fingers interlaced, talking earnestly as stars pierce the sky. 

My phone rings several times that night and the following morning; I don't answer. But in my locker that afternoon, I find a note from him. *Where have you been? I've been worried. Good news--the transfers are completely processed. Meet me at the teashop.*

It turns out that by taking a couple of tests now, we can leave Ohtori before the week is out.

I sit silent over my cup for a moment, then burst out, "Have you said anything to Juri?" 

His lips twist a little, but he gazes at me steadily. "Yes, I did. In fact, I let the cat out of the bag. I thought you were going to tell her yesterday. She seemed shocked. Hurt, even, that you hadn't told her."

So Juri hadn't dared to reach for him after all. Perhaps it was too late to offer her the chance. Or maybe my words, my offer, meant absolutely nothing to her. Like my friendship.

I feel like kicking the table. 

Instead, I shake myself a little and smile at him. "I'm sorry. Saying goodbye isn't easy for me--I wasn't quite ready for it. Thanks--thanks for letting her know."

He squeezes the hand I hold out to him, seems about to speak but stops.

We leave Ohtori without my seeing Juri again. 


	3. Dreams

Disclaimer: Give unto Be-Papas the things that are Be-Papas's (such as Shoujo Kakumei Utena and all related characters). Give unto Langston Hughes the things that are his, too.

Author's Note: Shiori's POV. * . . . * indicates italics. 

Title: Dreams (Part Three, Sub Rosa)  
Rating: G

Category: Drama/Angst  
Pairings: Nothing that isn't implied by the show.  
Summary: Cast   
Warnings: None I can think of.  
Spoilers: Through Episode 17 (Thorns of Death), and a bit of Episode 28 (Whispering in the Dark).

======

Sub Rosa

Part Three: Dreams

            Hold fast to dreams

            For if dreams die

            Life is a broken-winged bird

            That cannot fly.

from "Dreams," by Langston Hughes

I don't remember dreaming much in the years before Ohtori. Now and then I'd have one of those standard-issue dreams of flying, of taking tests naked...dreams to laugh about with friends and forget.

But with dreams here, though you may remember not one detail, you awaken and are transformed.

On my return to Ohtori, I was half relieved and half disappointed at how little things seemed to have changed. The smell of cooking in the dorms, the sounding of footsteps and voices in the colonnades. The cookie-cutter uniforms, enlivened here and there by the white of a Student Council jacket or some athletic outfit. 

I was welcomed back by my former circle of acquaintances. Well, most of them. 

There was the small matter of my broken friendship with Juri. 

The rift was originally of my making, of course. I shouldn't have expected it to be easy to mend. On the other hand, the Juri I found was not the girl I'd left behind.

At first, I attributed the difference to her serving on the Student Council. Perhaps she'd simply moved above and beyond her old friends. Yet I didn't see her socializing much with the other Seitokai members (Kaoru Miki being the exception that proved the rule). Nor did she rub shoulders with the officers of other clubs or the rest of Ohtori's elite. Oh yes, she shone brightly, won admiration, but not the kind of adulation heaped on Utenaor Kiryuu Touga; there was no band of flatterers like those who trail after Kiryuu Nanami.

She had retreated somehow, sealed herself inside her elegant shell. Sealed herself, perhaps, within the locket at her throat.

The first day I saw her after coming back, I ran after Juri, told her I'd done wrong in taking him away. I told her I missed the times we'd shared together. 

Her face was stone. She turned away. Then said she'd always been indifferent to him.

I couldn't help it. I blurted, "Then, whose picture is in your pendant? You have it hidden under your clothes even now!"

She simply walked away.

Not long after, I had the dream. A dream so deep it seemed to have lasted days. And though I could not remember one single thing about it, I arose changed. Harder, sharper. Ready to leave behind old memories and forge new ones. 

Juri was still Juri to me: the brilliance to my shadow. But I was done apologizing, trying to mend fences. I'd even grown past fretting over the mystery of her locket. If she wanted to keep some dark secret, who was I to convince her otherwise, to tell her that her light seemed slightly dimmed?

Perhaps she detected, and respected, the change in me, for these days she would at least greet me when we passed on campus. She never stopped to talk, but then, neither did I.

Still, I came from time to time to watch her dart and twist and parry on the fencing floor, watch her shake back her sunset ringlets and bark "Next," disposing of one opponent after another.

She never looked up at the balcony these days.

And then came the afternoon when I had to push through a crowd to look over the railing of the balcony. An unholy din rose from the watchers around me and on the floor of the hall.

My eyes immediately found her: standing alone, foil lowered, mask off. As often happened in practice, her ringlets had become looser, reminiscent of the gentle waves in which she'd worn her hair years ago. Perhaps that was why she seemed younger, almost uncertain. 

She was looking fixedly at something going on several yards away. I followed her gaze, and found...Ruka. Found, as well, the purpose for which that dream had tested and tempered me. 


	4. Shiori vanguardista

Disclaimer: Be-Papas's got dibs on Shoujo Kakumei Utena and all related characters. Poems by several authors are quoted below; see end for attributions.

Author's Note: Shiori's POV. * . . . * indicates italics. 

Title: Shiori vanguardista (Part Four, Sub Rosa)  
Rating: G

Category: Drama/Angst  
Pairings: Nothing that isn't implied by the show.  
Summary: Shiori's glad. Juri's sad. (Not to mention worried.)   
Warnings: None I can think of.  
Spoilers: Through Episode 28 (Whispers in the Dark).

======

Sub Rosa

Part Four: Shiori vanguardista

Our Spanish literature teacher, as usual, starts class by filling the board with neat rows of romaji. Today, he has written as title: "The Fall of the Swan: From Modernismo to Vanguardismo."

Amid the impatient rustling of my classmates, I stretch delicately, then uncap my pen and trace characters in my notebook margin: Tsuchiya Ruka. With small flicks of the pentip, I craft his likeness: flyaway lock of hair, sharp chin, swooping brows . . . 

Even so has his attention drawn me into existence here on the Ohtori campus. Once a miniscule violet, I've bloomed a great dark rose. Everyone--almost everyone--has changed towards me. Male and female classmates greet me respectfully, teachers call on me and praise my contributions.

The tapping of the teacher's chalk has stopped. I turn my gaze hurriedly to the board. "Modernismo," I copy down, "French Parnassians," "Ruben Darío." "Symbolism." "Aestheticism." Sensei's plain face glows in the afternoon sunlight as he croons the name of the Nicaraguan poet whose clean-cut verses celebrated a mix of the classical and the exotic. 

The teacher has asked Biiko to read a bit of Darío: "Los Cisnes"--Swans. Dario's fond of these birds--they symbolize . . . well, a whole bunch of things to him. 

"Faltos del alimento que dan las grandes cosas, 

¿qué haremos los poetas sino buscar tus lagos? 

A falta de laureles son muy dulces las rosas, 

y a falta de victorias busquemos los halagos." 

 . . . 

Lacking the food that great things bring,

what shall we poets do but seek your lakes?

If we have no laurels, roses are very sweet;

bereft of victories, let us look for pleasures. (1)

Metered design, European-style orderliness--this poetry seems like Ohtori itself. I close my eyes and think of arched walkways, neoclassical fountains . . .  Kaoru Miki's piano ripplings . . . fencing too, in its formal, chilly grace.

My mind's eye conjures up one white-clad form immediately: foil perfectly extended, arm angled behind, copper curls escaping the back of the mask.

My mind's eraser quickly rubs it out.

Tsuchiya Ruka. His name is a talisman. I feel a different foil cradled in my palms, warm breath fanning my cheeks, soft lips marking me his.

 . . . I've clearly missed part of the lecture. The teacher is now discussing rebels against the modernist movement.

"First, we have Enrique Gonzalez Martinez. Takatsuki-san, would you turn to page 48 and read the first verse of his poem?"

Pleased to be called on, I rise and find my place in the book. "Tuércele el cuello al cisne," I read in a clear voice, "de engañoso plumaje/ que da su nota blanca al azul de la fuente;/ el pasea su gracia no mas, pero no siente/ el alma de las cosas ni la voz del paisaje."

*Wring its neck! The swan with deceitful feathers

that gives its white note to the fountain's blue.

It simply struts its grace but does not feel

the soul of objects nor the landscape's voice.*

The words flow out of me, take shape in the air and dissolve. As I sit, a flicker of white tugs the edge of my vision. Turning a little, I see her leaning against the wall opposite our classroom doorway. Heavy amber ringlets frame perfectly carved features, lap over her snowy Student Council jacket. Her eyes scan the page of the book she holds.

--Skreek.-- Our instructor underlines the name Vicente Huidobro with a long slide of chalk. "Good, now let us close with "Espejo de Agua." The whole poem--I think Kaoru-san for the first two verses, and Himemiya-san the last three, if you please."

Who knows how two underclassmen got into this sophomore-level class? Ohtori's rules are strangely malleable at times . . . and if Kozue is interested in something, she's not the type to let scruples (her own or anyone else's) stand in her way. Though she usually seems to lick her lips over the rolling sounds of Spanish, lately her voice has been muted, almost dull.

"Mi espejo, corriente por las noches,

Se hace arroyo y se aleja de mi cuarto.

"Mi espejo, mas profundo que el orbe

Donde todos los cisnes se ahogaron."

*My looking-glass turns liquid in the nights,

Becomes a creek that flows out of my room.

My looking-glass, deeper than the sphere

within which every swan has long been drowned.*

Himemiya Anthy--the deputy Chairman's sister--picks up there, her husky voice never losing its hint of remoteness. She doesn't have Kozue's obvious enthusiasm for the subject, but her mastery of the spoken language is perfect.

"Es un estanque verde en la muralla

Y en medio duerme tu desnudez anclada.

"Sobre sus olas, bajo cielos sonámbulos,

Mis ensueños se alejan como barcos.

"De pie en la popa siempre me veréis cantando.

Una rosa secreta se hincha en mi pecho

Y un ruiseñor ebrio aletea en mi dedo."

*It's a green pond upon the wall

and in it sleeps your nakedness at anchor.

On its waves, under sleepwalk skies,

my reveries recede like boats.

In the stern you'll always spot me standing, singing.

A secret rose is swelling in my breast,

A drunken nightingale flutters on my finger.*

The end-of-class bell shrills into the hush that follows the poem. Sensei shouts our homework assignment over the din of zipper-noises and buckle snaps. I write it down, then linger over my satchel, vibrating with blood and fierce language. 

Slowly, I raise my eyes, acknowledge her presence by the door. "Oh, Juri-san. What's that look for?" 

A slight curve of her neck as her gaze falls from mine. "Shiori . . . Don't go out with him, for your own good."

Startled, I utter an unladylike "Eh?"

Juri plows ahead. "I know this is a shock for you. But I'm worried about you. You can't trust him--"

"Juri-san!" I bark. She almost jumps. I press a hand against my heart as I look upon her. Who does she think she is, to besmirch *my* brightness? What does she know of me and my dreams, of this new power within me? 

I hold the words poised on my tongue tip, then let them fly, swift and sure.

"You are really . . . just awful." 

For a second my ears seem filled with a rushing sound, the frantic beating of doomed wings. Yet Arisugawa Juri just stands there, her eyes wide like bottomless, barely-rippled pools.

*Anyone ever tell you that people can drown in each other's eyes?* Ruka teased me yesterday. *I've known it to happen--quite a tragedy.*

A classmate calls from behind me. 

"Coming," I say as I step carefully away from the brink. Swinging my satchel at my side, I leave Juri behind me. 

"What's up?" someone asks, glancing past me into the room.

I manage to mutter, "Nothing." My heart seems to have grown too big for my chest.

"Isn't Arisugawa-san scary?" another girl breathes in my ear.

"Oh, is she?" I let my own breath out with a laugh.

======

*Later that day . . . 

*Shiori is seen in profile, putting books away in her locker. Against the wall behind her appear the silhouettes of two Shadow Play Girls.

*A-ko [wearing a beard, declaims]: The Tale of the Swan Brother!

*B-ko [in princess garb, runs towards the silhouette of a swan. She is holding out a shirt]: Here you go! [Swan reverses direction, moves off] Wait, come back! [She chases it offstage]

*A-ko [lifts a finger]: The only way to break the spell is for the princess to throw the shirt over her brother!

*B-ko [returns, dragging her feet] He flew away--again . . . 

*A-ko [clutches head]: Oh no! Doesn't he want to be rescued?

*Shiori [closes her locker. Dulcetly]: I thought the point of this story was that the princess had to keep her mouth shut until the very end. *

======

Only after my encounter with her in the classroom does it occur to me: perhaps Juri has an interest in Tsuchiya-sempai. *Perhaps this time, without even trying, I succeeded in taking something precious from her.*

For a blink of an eye, I try to picture Juri polishing the sword. I fail utterly.

In any case, I'm too attached to the image of myself in that role. 

I never did, of course--the idea wouldn't have occurred to me. But, I reason, my behavior *now* makes up for that omission. 

You, Tsuchiya-sempai, were a miracle. 

Though aware of you in my early years at Ohtori, I had never spoken to you before your return. Yet when we met in the corridor with the lockers, it was as though my newborn desire, unspoken, achieved its own end. From strangers to lovers in the space of a brief exchange! I remember scrambling thoughts, my words feeding clumsily, eagerly off yours. Anything to make you think well of me, gift me with the smile that had all those fencers blushing.

And those few stammered words sufficed.

I sense purposefulness in all you do, Tsuchiya-sempai. Underneath your banter, deeper than your flirtations, burns determination: you want to shine. And by your every glance and action, you invite me to shine too. I've left frozen memories behind: I burn alongside you in the present. 

Time moves in a blur now. Our moments together seem so brief that I run to you to make them last longer, not to waste even a second.

I am running to you now through Ohtori's dappled night. You've hinted that you need my help with something.

"Anything," drums my heart. "Anything."

======          

 (1) From "Los Cisnes" [The Swans] by Rubén Darío, translated by Sara Palmer.

(2) from "Tuércele el cuello al cisne" [Wring the Swan's Neck] by Enrique Gonzalez Martinez, translated by Sara Palmer

(3) from "Espejo de Agua" [Water-Mirror] by Vicente Huidobro, translated by Sara Palmer


	5. Into the LookingGlass

Disclaimer: To Be-Papas go the spoils, including Shoujo Kakumei Utena and all related characters.

Author's Note: Shiori's POV. * . . . * indicates italics. Tense changes between one section and the next are intentional. The song quoted is a variant of the folksong "Polly Vaughn."

Title: Into the Looking-Glass (Part Five, Sub Rosa)  
Rating: G

Category: Drama/Angst  
Pairings: Nothing that isn't implied by the show.  
Summary: Cast off by Ruka, can Shiori work her way back up from despair?  
Warnings: None I can think of.  
Spoilers: Through Episode 29 (Azure Paler than the Sky).

Sub Rosa

Part Five: Into the Looking Glass

The day after the night of the highway, the morning of our Duel, Ruka brought me a dress. A Rose-Bride dress, he called it. And roses. Twelve of them, mulberry-colored, to put in a clear vase by my window.

======

They say the reason birds fly into windows is that the reflections seem to them simply an extension of sky. They trust their future to an illusion.

I've seen many birds make this mistake--sometimes fatal--around Ohtori.

I am one of them.

======

CRASH.

I jerked into consciousness. 

Splintered glass littered the dashboard across which I was lying. I lifted my aching head, blinking. *I'm in the Deputy Chairman's car. Did I crash? Was I driving? I'm not old enough--*

I straightened in the leather seat and caught a glimpse of my face in the rearview mirror: all scraped and smudged, hair tousled, Rose Bride tiara askew. I fingered rips in my ceremonial Bride's dress, and moaned.

A movement to my left; Tenjou-san and Himemiya-san together. I turned my head. There was Ruka, arrow-straight in his uniform. But his rose--my eyes slid to the blue rose petals on the tiles.

And when I called to him, his response was colder than the wind over the arena.

======

The next day, my wailing plea to Ruka, under the fascinated regard of the entire school:

"Ruka, wait! please! You're all I've ever loved! You're all that I have now!"

"Would you please let go of me?"                                                                                                

I gasped at his tone, but struggled on. "I don't know what I'll do without you! So please, please *believe me*!"

His voice went quiet. "What should I believe?"

"What?" I looked up at him, startled.

"What do you want me to believe?"

"That I love you more than . . . I love you more than anyone else!" 

Ruka's face stayed set, but in his eyes appeared a sudden, murderous flame. He flicked my hand off his arm and strode off. I tumbled to the ground: a snapped branch, a discarded nosegay.

"Sempai. Sempai!" 

He never looked back. I crossed my hands over my breast and keened.

======

So utterly alone.

There's no way I'm moving from this room.

They'll open the door at term's end and find my shell, dessicated, still curled around its memory of pain.

Alone. Forgotten, except for a few phone calls--one from my concerned Spanish teacher, one from an irritated-sounding counselor in the guidance office. I claimed illness; they didn't sound convinced. 

But it's true--I'm sick to the heart.

I'm tethered to that phone. But there are no calls that matter. No answers to my agonized messages.

Distress calls. No response.

Pleading. No response.

Anger. No response.

Declaration of love. No response . . . 

*I love you. Who am I without you? How can you make someone, and then unmake them, so carelessly?*

The brittle stalks of my Bridal bouquet have shed their last purplish petals.

I haven't cracked a schoolbook since that day. I'm living on odds and ends from my fridge and cupboard, sodas from the machine down the hall.

(Every midnight, I step out onto the walkway, one shade among the night's many. I flit to the machine; a can drops like a bell tolling. I wonder, walking back with it, whether I'd be able to read the label through the back of my hand--if I'm turning as invisible as I feel.)

It's maybe the fourth evening after the end of my world. I'm flat on my stomach on the floor of my room.

Steps approach down the walkway outside. Too light for a man's. Too surefooted for the hallmates on either side.

The footfalls stop. Squinting at the sliver of light below my door, I see shoes. Red-orange shoes.

Soundlessly, I get to my feet. I wait, hugging my middle.

Juri knocks.

*Spare me your I-told-you-so,* I think grimly. I don't move.

She knocks again.

As quietly as possible, I slide closer to the door. I set my hand on the knob, wondering if she's about to give up and leave. *Go. Please go.*

Juri knocks a third time.

I give the knob a savage twist and yank the door ajar. A harsh noise as it grates against the safety chain, which I've left hooked.

Even harsher is the sunset light bouncing from the windows across the way straight into my dark-accustomed eyes.

Juri has stepped back, just a little. She's as beautiful as I've ever seen her. Perfect, golden, poised: Balder to my Hoder, Persephone to my Hades. She enrages me. My voice comes out as a rusty growl.

"Juri-san, so it's you. What do you want?"

"Shiori--"

Damn her for sounding pained, for looking at me with eyes of concern. If there's something I'll never want, it's Juri's compassion.

"Did you come to laugh at me? You must be really happy now!"

"Of course not--"

 "You really are pathetic!" I'm almost panting with eagerness to let my fermented emotions pour through that crack in the door. "Did you expect me to cry for help on your shoulder?! Well, too bad, I'm not doing what you expect!"

With that, I thrust against the door, slamming it shut. I slump back against it as it vibrates.

I don't know why I think she'll start shouting at me, pummeling the other side. She doesn't; merely turns and walks away, heels staccato.

My fists clench and unclench, my body shudders and shudders.

*I could really have used that shoulder to cry on.*

Painfully, long minutes later, I push off from the door and move to my closet. I strip off my grubby nightgown, splash cold water all over.

After a few moments, I picture what I must have looked like to Juri. A worm, a slug under a rock. No, a centipede-type creature with mandibles waving threateningly.

 . . . My satchel is packed, my hair brushed; my face carefully washed, my cheeks pinched for color. I lean down to lace my shoes. I may not look perfect, but it will do for the library; I've got a lot of catching up to do.

*Of all my so-called friends, Juri was the only one who came to visit me.*

Just as I unhook the door chain, I stop in shock. Sounds are coming from the room next door. 

*Isn't most everyone still at dinner?* I think in dismay. *Was someone listening to my outburst?*

Twanging noises. My neighbor Shiiko is probably sitting in her window-seat, messing around with her latest acquisition--a banjo. She doesn't usually rehearse her theatrical pieces in her room, but seems to be making an exception today. 

Once she's done tuning up the instrument, she begins singing. Her voice is clear and carrying.

*Uncle, dear Uncle,

Have you heard what I've done?

Cur-sed be this old gunsmith

That made me this gun

For I've shot my own true-love

In the form of a swan.

*Uncle, dear Uncle,

Let Jimmy go clear

For my apron was wrapped round me

When he took me for a swan

And his poor heart lay bleeding

For Polly his own.*

I hurtle into the hall. I drum on Shiiko's door, screaming. "Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!" 

Before I'm done yelling, the door swings inward--it must have been poorly latched. 

Shiiko's slender, thick-ponytailed form is silhouetted in profile against her window. She's set aside her banjo, perhaps in response to my demand.

After a moment, her head turns towards me. No doubt she's smiling in that creepy way of hers. She lifts her hands, makes them into a fluttering shadow-bird that takes wing against the last streaks of sun. Up, up--

"Baaaang," she says casually, and her joined hands drop.

I gulp and run down the hall, satchel smacking hard against my thigh.

======

I can't say things returned to normal with my emergence from my room. Those first two days, I barely said a word to anybody. Out of awkwardness, misplaced tact . . . or pity . . . nobody spoke to me either, except for a few necessary words involved in classroom tasks.

I developed an almost scientific interest in the cracks and textures of Ohtori's sidewalks. It was a pretty effective way to avoid accidental glimpses of indigo hair or red-gold curls.

Towards evening of the second day, though, I grew bolder. The dropping of the sun always seems to stir my sense of daring. And so, near dusk, I found myself facing the entry to the fencing hall balcony. 

*Standing in my usual spot will help me think things over. The hall's sure to be empty now.* That was my excuse. 

The door swung open noiselessly, and I stepped onto the gallery, turned towards the railing.

The hall was not empty. 

Below and to my left shone two figures, still in their fencing suits, facing each other across a triangle of spectators' seats near the doorway.

Sound carries impressively in that space--perhaps the designers built in a sort of whispering-gallery. Short of leaving the room, there was no way I could avoid hearing their conversation.

Naturally, there was no question of my leaving.

Ruka, seated casually with his back towards me, spoke first, lightly. "What a surprise. You told me before to keep my hands off her . . . "

My own fists clenched. 

" . . . and now you want me to take her back."

Juri's response was quiet but steady. "If it'll make her happy . . . "

I saw Ruka turn his head away, strained to catch his next words.

"Sorry, but I can't do what you ask." 

He rose, and took a step or two towards the door, as though intending to conclude the conversation.

"Ruka!" Juri sounded . . . frightened? Desperate?

"I appreciate your friendship with her." Ruka kept his course for the door. "However, she's spoiled, pushy, and self-centered. Not to mention a liar!"

There's rarely any satisfaction gained from hearing someone sum you up precisely, coldly, categorically. 

When you hear those words from a person whose touch made the world sing around you, it's like a swift injection of something lethal. 

Time turned sluggish. Every place on my body which Ruka had caressed seemed to grow numb. *Presently,* I thought, *my throat will close, my lungs will shut down.*

Below me, my executioner took a few more steps toward the exit, then paused as though to deliver a final blow. A heavy dread grew within me, though what could be worse than what he'd said already?

"Who'd want a girl like that?"

A remnant of sunlight pooled around Juri as she stared towards him. Through my numbness, I noted she was shaking. "You son of a--who do you think you are?!" she burst out.

Ruka turned his head slightly in her direction. "You don't control me."

"What gives you the right to hurt her?!"

*Why,* I wondered dully, *does he seem to want to wound her? And why on earth does she still want to defend me?*

"My God, what a bastard you've become!" she was hissing at him. 

*Strange that in all my time with Ruka, I detected nothing between them. But then, I also thought he--  well, I'm not the only one with a talent for improvisation, Tsuchiya-sempai.* 

"And what about you?! Presuming to order others around!" Ruka shot back at her.

At that moment, I witnessed a transformation I hadn't seen since elementary school--Juri turning panther. With a cry, almost a howl, of rage she sprang at him, fist arcing towards his chin.

But Ruka was ready for her. He caught that flying hand, then the other as it flashed towards him. *At last,* I commented distantly, watching them grapple, *she meets a worthy opponent. Or a worthy--* I cut off the thought, just watched. Watched Ruka flip Juri against the wall, hold her writhing there.

" . . . I was thinking I'd like to go out with *you* now," Ruka completed my thought. 

*Here's where she'll blush and yield to force majeure. It's as good as a movie.* 

Juri apparently didn't know the script of that movie. She was still struggling. "Who'd want to go out with you?!"

"Because you love your fencing club's captain, don't you?"

*Don't you, Juri?* I trembled, clinging to the rail. *How can she still be fighting him? When the full strength of his passion is trained on her . . . *

That's when it hit me--the man below me was the true Ruka, a Ruka I'd never met. A Ruka who, just now, was not quite in control of his speech and actions. *This is Ruka in love.* 

The thought should have pulverized what was left of my heart. Instead--how strange--it seemed to ease the numbness, just a little. 

"Stop resisting," I heard him say as he lowered his face to hers. Her angry response was abruptly silenced, and after a moment her body stilled, pressed against his.

I closed my eyes. Not to protect myself--what was left of me to protect?--but to respect the privacy of their moment. *This, at last, is the turning point.*

My eyes sprang open, though, at a sudden clatter of noise. I stared at the change that had taken place. Ruka, with his back to me, was now several feet away from her and had lifted his hand to his lip; Juri was against the wall, hunched as though in pain, gasping for breath. 

They stood that way a moment longer. Ruka was the first to stir. He straightened, gazed at her as she panted. Then he raised his hand--and let her locket dangle from it, chiming as it swung. 

Juri looked up, touched her neck in obvious horror. "When did you--?!"

Ruka's only response was to let the necklace fall to the floor, and raise his foot over it.

 "Sto . . . stop it! Ruka!" 

I'd never heard that pleading sound in Juri's voice before. It was as though she was begging for her life. Or someone else's.

He did not make a sound; his foot still hovered over the little heap of gold on the floor. Or was it descending?

Juri flew at him, one hand connecting with his cheek in a sharp smack. *Doesn't look like he was ready for it this time.* 

The force of the blow sent Ruka slightly off balance. By the time he recovered, Juri had dropped to the floor and was cradling the locket to her breast, head down.

Ruka spoke. "I've changed my mind. I'll do what you want. I'll take her back."

Slowly, Juri lifted her face to look at him. My breath caught. I had never seen that look on her face--a look of rage and pain perfectly mixed.

"You hate me more than you can stand, don't you?" he said in a low voice.

Suddenly, I knew jealousy as I had never felt it before.

Not jealousy of Juri.

Of Ruka. For being able to call forth Juri's anger as well as her hurt. For summoning fierce-fighting Juri instead of pained-cold Juri. She has never lashed out at *me* with the full force of her rage. 

I wanted to see her look at me that way, angry and alive.

Was my heart starting to beat again?

Ruka began walking towards the door again, his steps slow, almost like those of an old man. But he stopped when Juri spoke.

"Wait. Ruka . . . I challenge you to a duel. If I should lose, I'll do whatever you want. But when I win, you and Shiori--"

"Understood. You don't have to say it."

He passed through the door and was gone. 

And I realized that Ruka, like me, was Juri's shadow. In both of us, she inspired despair.

And yet--and yet--

I saw Juri rise slowly to her feet, raise her hands to replace the chain around her neck. She stayed for a moment, head bowed, one thumb rubbing the relief of the pendant's face.

*I run my own thumb over exquisitely carved, inexplicably wet, petals.*

I blink. I lift my hand, gaze at my empty palm. My hand is barely visible in the gathered darkness, here in the upper reaches of the room.

*My thumb springs the catch of the locket.

*I discover an image of myself gazing off to the side. . . .*

Memories burst into me. How could I have forgotten it all?

*"Who'd want a girl like that?"* 

Yes, who would want a girl like that? 

A girl whose actions have so often been moved by jealousy? 

A girl who once mocked her friend's pain, then pulled a sword out of her breast and left her lying on the floor?

Juri was walking through the doorway. 

I almost called to her, said "A duel won't be any use. You can't make him love me when he loves you." But I held my tongue, and she, too, was gone.

======


End file.
